Gracielis undarios.
In the Tarnaroqui embassy Quenfrida lets her goblet fall, and clouds dance in her sky-blue eyes. In his rooms, Kenan starts awake and stares into the darkness, heart pounding. In an inn on East Gold Street, Urien Armenwy throws wide a window and dives swan-form into the night.
Gracielis undarios.
17
“MAL, STOP THAT.” Miraude pushed playfully at her companion’s hands.
Maldurel of South Marr looked at her in reproach and leaned back into a corner of the coach. “You’re very proper tonight.”
She dimpled at him. “Don’t rush me.”
“Thought you liked to be rushed.”
“Well, sometimes I do . . .” Her expression grew wicked. “But tonight I feel like keeping something for later.”
“Oh oh!” Maldurel stared at her. “Think I’m not capable, then? Not up to both occasions?” She giggled. He took her hand and kissed the palm. Then the wrist and the inside of her elbow. “Well?”
She stopped giggling long enough to kiss him. Then she pulled away and said primly, “The driver.”
“Paid to keep quiet, like all your people.” He peered at her. “Trying to tell me something, Mimi?” Miraude stroked his hand. He considered her for a moment, then continued, “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for Prince Kenan. You’ve been seen with him a lot lately.”
She shrugged, “He’s interesting. He knows a lot of history.”
“Don’t call that interesting,” Maldurel said. “Sure you’ve not turning into a scholar, Mimi?”
“Completely.” She smiled at him. One might not trust him with any secret: he had all the discretion of a magpie. Yet she remained fond of him for all that. He had been her first lover; he remained a kind friend. She said,
“Have you seen Thierry? He was at the soirée, but I didn’t really get to talk to him.”
“Not for days. He’s holed himself up somewhere and won’t come out or answer my notes.”
“Yviane’s hardly ever home now, either. She practically lives at the palace. And with Thierry having moved out . . .” She turned to him. “It’s like when Valdin died. Too quiet. And with all this trouble in the low city . . .”
“Won’t touch us here.” Maldurel squeezed her fingers. “Thierry always was stubborn. He’ll come round.”
“I hope so.” Miraude put her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Mal.”
“Welcome.” He grinned. “I get a reward, then?”
“Oh, you!” She kissed his cheek.
The coach came to a sudden halt, throwing them both forward. Maldurel caught her shoulders and steadied her. She hung onto him, gasping. “What happened?”
“Don’t know. Stay here. I’ll ask.” He opened the door on his side and peered out. “Well?” he called up to the driver.
Miraude opened her window and peered out in turn. By the light of the carriage lamps, she could see the driver standing in the road, bending over something. She could not quite make out what. She called, “What is it?”
The coachman turned and bowed. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, monseigneur. There’s been an incident. A person . . .”
“We hit someone?” Miraude opened the door and prepared to climb out. “Are they hurt?”
“I’m not sure, mademoiselle.” The driver was uncomfortable. “We were driving slowly. This person just seemed to fall into our path, and I had trouble stopping.”
Miraude jumped down into the road. The victim was a man of about her own age. He wore a stained and torn cavalry cassock. His face was dirty. He was unconscious. The driver stood to one side, twisting his hands. He said, “I don’t think we hit him.”
She waved him into silence. “We can’t leave him here.” She called, “Mal, come here, will you?” Maldurel, grumbling, climbed down from the carriage. “We’ll take him home.”
“Can’t do that,” Maldurel said reasonably. “Don’t know his address.”
“Home with us, stupid,” Miraude said. Maldurel looked affronted. “You’ll have to help lift him into the coach. We can fetch a doctor later.”
Maldurel and the driver exchanged glances. “Now, Mimi, wait a moment,” Maldurel said. “That might not be for the best. After all, the fellow’s a stranger. Could be anyone. Could be drunk. An inn, that’s the answer.”
“Oh, Mal! It may be our fault he’s hurt.” Maldurel looked unconvinced. She went on, “Yviane would. So would Thierry.”
“Valdin wouldn’t.”
“Valdin had no manners. Everyone says so.”
He shook his head, then sighed. “Yours to command. As usual.”
“Thank you.” Miraude hesitated, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “You’re very dear, Mal.”
“No, I’m not. I’m soft, that’s what. Well, let’s do it.” Maldurel pulled on his gloves and leaned over to lift the shoulders of the injured man. “River bless!”
“What is it?”
“I know this fellow. That lantern; bring it here.” The driver brought it. “Yes, I thought so. Cavalry chap. Thierry wanted to fight him. Can’t remember why.” Maldurel hauled at the unconscious figure. “Your house, you said?” Miraude took the lamp from the driver and the latter lifted the man’s feet.
She said, “Do you remember his name?”
“Not sure.” Maldurel panted as he helped with the carrying. “It’ll . . . come back to me.” They hoisted the limp form into the coach and settled it on a seat. “Fellow’s a mess. Best not get too close.” “Is he injured?”
Maldurel peered. “Don’t think so. But he is drunk. Take him to barracks.”
“Oh, but . . .” She hesitated. “I still think a doctor . . .”
“Army has doctors, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
The man stirred, and his eyes flickered open. He looked at Maldurel without recognition and said, indistinctly, “Iareth?”
“What?” Maldurel said.
Miraude frowned. Then she motioned the driver back to his box and climbed into the coach. Maldurel was right, the man was a mess. His clothing was filthy, and he smelled of ale and vomit. But the expression in his deep-set eyes was pleading. Maldurel opened his mouth. She held up a hand to silence him and said, “We’re taking him home. Drive on.”
He had black hair to his shoulders and well-shaped gray eyes. His bones were good, but he wore a beard and mustache along the straight jaw and round the thin lips. His skin tone was the warm honey common to Merafiens. He stood medium tall, with a fencer’s long muscles beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. A gold stud pierced his left ear. Attractive, in the feral mode.
He was holding his left hand in front of his face and looking at it, turning it slowly, flexing the fingers. Then he put it to his heart. The bloodied shirt parted, but the chest below was whole. His straight black brows lifted, questioning. He was Valdarrien d’Illandre, once Lord of the Far Blays, and he was dead.
Had been dead. Gracielis, on his knees before him, looked up and pushed his soaking hair back. His own hands were filthy with blood and earth; his clothing was ruined. Thiercelin lay between them; the wound torn in his side was no longer bleeding. His breathing was slow and regular. Gracielis felt for a pulse. It was steady. Gracielis whispered thanks into the night. Then he stood and looked again at Valdarrien. There was no weakness in him, no backlash. He could feel his blood pumping clean through him. The long cuts in his abused wrists were healed, marked out only by fading scars. He had never known such a sense of certainty.
He felt like laughing. Mist yet clung to their perimeters. Thiercelin needed help. Gracielis drew in a breath, savoring the movement, and smiled to see Valdarrien doing likewise. Then he said, “This isn’t possible.”
Valdarrien’s straight brows lifted anew. “I have not,” said his former lordship, “made any great study of superstitions.”
One of them should be dead. Gracielis had passed through his final gate and faced the seventh test through necessity rather than desire. F
aced and survived; but the price should have been a life taken, not a life given. At their feet, Thiercelin groaned, and Gracielis put the mystery from him. The fog had thinned a little. He could see the houses along the quay and on the corner of Silk Street. “Thierry needs help,” he said. “I have a friend who lives nearby.” Pray Amalie was at home tonight. “But I can’t carry him alone.”
Valdarrien looked down. “What happened to him?”
“He was attacked. Ambushed.”
Gray eyes watched him, shaded with suspicion. Mist coiled within them and Gracielis shivered. He said, “You can touch him, can’t you?”
Valdarrien looked puzzled. He reached a hand out, questioning. Gracielis held out one of his own. Met warm flesh, solid, real. Not possible . . . Valdarrien said, “What is it? What’s happened to me?”
“I don’t know,” Gracielis said. “Forgive me.” There was a silence; then Valdarrien bent over Thiercelin and lifted him with care. “Is it far?”
“Two streets or so.”
Valdarrien shrugged. “Let’s do it, then.”
They met no one en route. The mist fell back, away from the river. For all that, Gracielis could feel it along his spine. What he had done must have blazed like a beacon, for those who might see. There would be consequences.
Amalie’s house was dark. Gracielis suppressed uncertainty and knocked as loudly as he could.
There was a long silence. Amalie was out. They would have to go elsewhere, to his old lodgings or some other inn . . . Gracielis conjured Amalie’s image beneath his long lashes and prayed. It could not end like this.
The door opened fractionally, and a familiar voice said, “We’re closed.”
Gracielis said, “It’s me, Madame Herlève. Forgive me but I need your help. There’s been an . . . accident.”
“Another one?”
“To Monseigneur de Sannazar.”
There was a pause. Then Herlève said, “You take advantage of Madame Viron.”
“I know.”
She had liked Thiercelin despite everything. Gracielis heard her sigh; then the door opened wider. She wore her oldest garments, and her hair was covered. The shop behind her was more than half-empty, contents packed into chests. She sniffed and said, “Dueling, I take it?” She stared at them disapprovingly. “There’s almost no one here. The boys have been sent ahead, and Madame and I are leaving tomorrow, like you wanted. You’ll have to fetch your own doctor. If you can find one willing to come out at this hour, which I doubt.” She spoke briskly but, for all that, she helped them take Thiercelin upstairs and set about cleaning and binding his side. She also found some clothing for Valdarrien. Then she ordered them both back to the kitchen, with instructions not to disturb Amalie.
The kitchen was warm and empty. Gracielis, almost absently, began to make tea. Valdarrien watched him for a few moments, then said, “Thierry needs a doctor.”
“Doubtless,” Gracielis said. “But you heard Madame Herlève, monseigneur. We’ll have to wait until dawn.”
Valdarrien put a hand to his sword hilt. “Not necessarily.”
Gracielis drew a hand through his disordered hair and suppressed a sigh. As mildly as he could, he said, “That would be inadvisable, I think,” and then, as Valdarrien looked disbelieving, “Consider, monseigneur. We’re dependent on the good will of Madame Herlève and her mistress. It would be discourteous to make difficulties for them.”
“Really?” Valdarrien’s tone held all the dismissive arrogance of the born aristocrat.
Gracielis rubbed his eyes. He had washed his face and hands, but he still felt soiled. “Monseigneur, forgive me, but it can’t be done. We don’t have any money. Dead men don’t commonly own property.” Valdarrien frowned. Gracielis added, “Monseigneur de Sannazar is in good hands. In the morning I’ll petition Madame Viron.”
He was very tired. He sat down on a stool and rested his head on his arms. He seemed to be fated to dealings with ghosts.
To living with ghosts. He made himself look up at Valdarrien, into Valdarrien, and heard water falling. Not wholly inhuman . . . Even now, even after what he had done tonight, Gracielis was more human than this creature opposite him. Bound into the present by some past vow, made to the sound of falling water and the beating of swan wings. His skin would be cool, created as he was from mist and pure strength of will. He should not exist.
Instead . . . Gracielis was more than he had ever meant to be; and Valdarrien d’Illandre was back from the dead. He could not understand it. In becoming undarios , he should have faced death and driven it away by slaying another. Or else have died himself. He had never heard of an outcome such as this. He watched the swan wings rising in the depths of Valdarrien and looked away. For so long he had been shadowed by this man’s life. He was free now. He did not know if the same was true of Valdarrien.
It should not have happened. It should never have happened. Not in Tarnaroq’s Bell Temple; not in the wild places of Lunedith; not—oh, how assuredly—not and never here in Merafi, where the old powers should not run. It was part of Quenfrida’s weaving, cast up under the stress of her and Kenan’s tampering with what could, and should, not be. He should go to her and tax her with it. He should read her, as he had Valdarrien, and fight to untie whatever bonds she had fabricated.
Except that he was alone and tired and afraid. He put from him her temptations and said to Valdarrien, “What’s your intention now?”
Valdarrien blinked and looked away. “Does that concern you?”
“Certainly. You know who I am.”
“No.” Valdarrien’s thin lips quirked. “I know what you are. I owe you nothing.”
“As you wish.” Gracielis rose and went to the dresser. He took out bread for himself, hesitated, added a portion for Valdarrien. “You are of course under no obligation.” He had had his fill of chains. He had no wish to shape new ones. “But consequences are usually worth a little consideration. What do you remember, monseigneur?”
“Thierry,” Valdarrien said, and stopped. His brows drew together. “It’s confused. I remember an inn, a duel . . . Then he talked to me, at home.” Again he paused and frowned. “There’s a lot missing. As if I’ve been asleep.”
You have been dead. But Gracielis could not bring himself to say that. After a moment Valdarrien said,
“And I know you. You were with Thierry at my duel and again, somewhere . . .”
“You know me.”
“Thierry cried.” Valdarrien’s hand went to his breast, over his heart. “There was pain.”
“Yes.”
“But I shouldn’t have fought there . . . I’d promised Urien . . .” Valdarrien halted and shivered.
Gracielis put plates onto the table and forced himself to decide. It could be no worse than anything else he had already done.
He said, “You died. You fought a duel with an army officer and were shot. I saw it. So did Thierry.” Valdarrien’s face gave nothing away. Gracielis continued. “Afterward—six years afterward—you’ve come back. A shadow. A haunt.”
Valdarrien said, “Iareth . . . a warning. I don’t understand you.”
“No? No matter. I scarcely understand myself.” Gracielis sat down, and cut the bread.
Valdarrien said, “I saw her, here in Merafi. My Iareth kai-reth.”
“She’s here.” Valdarrien half-rose. Gracielis put out a hand. “You can’t go now. Merafi is unsafe at night, even for you.” Valdarrien hesitated. “And Thierry may need you.”
“You,” said Valdarrien, “are very free with that name. For a foreigner.”
“Indubitably. But that’s between me and him. And you,” and Gracielis smiled, “have made free with more than his name. You came close to killing him.”
“I think not.”
“You’d have helped yourself to his life, as you had tried formerly to steal mine. You aren’t what you think you are, monseigneur.”
“Indeed not?” The tone was dangerous. “And you’re expert on this?”
Wind buffeted at the shutters, sudden, harsh. Gracielis dropped the bread knife and turned. There was a chill in the air and some other thing. Again a buffet. Valdarrien rose and went to the window. Before Gracielis could stop him, he threw it open. The wind poured in. No, not wind, but some other thing, driving cold air before it on great white wings. A swan. A vast swan, raising its head to Valdarrien’s, and stretching up and back and out into man-shape, naked against the night. Mist began to form, fringing the window, and Gracielis finally found the power to act. He looked to the window and spoke a soft word. The shutters slammed shut, although he had neither risen nor approached them. Then the bar dropped into its place across them. Party tricks . . . Stone-blessed, for barriers and boundaries. No one looked at him, or noticed what he had done. The man blown out of the night faced the man reborn from it, and said, “You will tell me, Valdin kai-reth, by what right you disobeyed my express command that you should live.”
“Firomelle’s asleep, I’m afraid.”
Living With Ghosts Page 35
